


The Convenient Husband

by cathalin



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Regency, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathalin/pseuds/cathalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on the kinkmeme here:  http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/3654.html?thread=3632198#t3632198 </p><p>and written for this prompt as a writing experiment/challenge for myself (and also to provide me with a scenario I wanted to see haha):<br/><i>Mark is a serious and proper gentleman with a reputation of being egotistical/cold, ala Mr. Darcy. Eduardo's father just lost his fortune or Eduardo is the younger son, or similar trope. They marry. Mark believes Eduardo married him for money/save family honor/etc. Eduardo believes Mark married him because, well, you decide what he believes. Neither believes that the other loves them like they've come to care for the other. There is angst and pining and angsty/pining sex. Happy ending where they finally realize they are MFEO.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Convenient Husband

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this even though it's my abandoned WIP, because I've gotten a few kind reader requests, and some of my journal is locked for real life privacy reasons, plus I like to have all fic accessible in one place -- though this is the first time I've posted something unfinished here on AO3. This one has enough to it already, I suppose some people might like to read it even though it's not finished and not likely to be finished (though there's a faint possibility).
> 
> I haven't edited it, just dumped it here, so, even more reasons for caveat lector to apply. <3

Eduardo bit the inside of his mouth and tried to keep his eyes locked on the ornate clock behind his father’s desk. With luck, there would be only a few more minutes of this humiliation required of him. For now, that is. He refused to think about the future abasement today’s actions would inevitably lead to. Instead, he focused on the ticking of the clock, the florid complexion of his father as he bent to sign the documents, the smug, superior expression of Mr. Zuckerberg’s attorney.

“Your turn, boy,” his father’s harsh voice intruded. 

Eduardo swallowed and strode to the desk. His collar felt tight and his stomach roiled.

No matter; it had already been decided and his fate sealed, short of him disgracing his family and running off. It only added to his humiliation that he knew he would not do that, that even now, he sought his father’s approval. Besides, he could never do that to Mama or the girls. Watching their dresses turn shabby and the bloom fade in his mother’s cheeks had been one of the great burdens of his life. He would cease to be able to call himself a gentleman if he did not grab at an opportunity to restore the family fortune. 

“Sir?” the attorney murmured after a moment.

“Yes, of course,” Eduardo said, refusing to let any tremor into his voice. In one quick motion, he signed where the lawyer indicated. He did it boldly; pen scratching harshly in the quiet study. 

“If that is all, father?” he asked, not looking at him.

“The ceremony will be in two weeks’ time. Speak with your mother. She has some nonsense about flowers and fripperies she wants to discuss with you.”

Biting his lip again against the heat of shame that rose into his cheeks, Eduardo let himself out quietly. When he glanced back, he saw his father already absorbed in some other business matter. Undoubtedly he was already putting Zuckerberg’s money to use.

It was a long time before Eduardo was able to sleep that night.

~

“It’s so romantic!” a young lady’s voice rang out. “To think they knew each other before, only to be separated by some silly quarrel, but found each other again...” Eduardo could hear her sigh through the curtain separating the alcove in which he’d momentarily taken shelter from the bustle of the reception.

“Such a cold fish, though, Mr. Zuckerberg!” another voice said. “Can you imagine looking at that across the breakfast table?”

“True,” the first girl said. “His limbs are quite pleasing, though,” the first voice said mischievously. 

“Becky!” the second laughed, scandalized-sounding. “Besides, I believe they quite detest each other to this day, if gossip is to be believed.”

“Whatever happened? I remember when they were thick as thieves.”

“No one knows with certainty. I’ve heard gossip, though, that Zuckerberg’s fortune was built on money Mr. Saverin lent to him.”

“Mmm, and now how the tables are turned, with the Saverins brought so low.” 

“Indeed. I hear they were one step away from the Poorhouse.”

Eduardo’s face heated. He crammed his hands uselessly into his pockets to prevent himself from opening the curtain. They would be done soon and he could escape. Though the only thing that awaited him when he did was the ceremony itself, more superficial talk with his parents’ guests, then finally, the walk up the staircase to the living areas and...

He shut down that line of thought, finisihing off his wine glass in one swallow. Well, he knew what he needed to do when he did leave this spot: he needed to find as much alcohol as he could and consume the maximum quantity possible before he mouthed the words he’d always, in some secret part of himself, hoped would carry deeper meaning. And he certainly needed to have consumed copious quanities before the time to ascend those stairs arrived.

~

Eduardo woke disoriented with a pounding headache. He threw his arm over his eyes in an ineffectual attempt to block the sunlight forcing its way into the room despite the heavy draperies he could see at the windows. 

For a moment he didn’t remember where he was, but when he turned to look for clues, unfamiliar aches in his body brought it flooding back. He was at Zuckerberg’s estate of course -- Eduardo refused to call him by his given name even in his head -- in the suite of rooms appointed to him. 

When they’d finally been alone, Zuckerberg had stiffly indicated these rooms. “For you. If they are acceptable?”

Eduardo had simply nodded, eyes drawn unerringly to the large bed dominating the main chamber. 

“I--” Zuckerberg had begun, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows. He took a breath; Eduardo watched his chest rise and fall. “Shall we, that is...?” He motioned at the bed.

Eduardo waved a hand to cut off further conversation. He’d known going in what his duty would be, and besides, it was required to keep the marriage recognized in the eyes of the law, as his father’s lawyer had reminded him in humiliating fashion. 

Unfortunately he had not gotten drunk enough to obliterate the memory of what happened next. It was perfunctory; they did not even fully remove their clothes, each of them simply opening the placket of their pants, and in Eduardo’s case shoving them down. Zuckerberg’s oiled fingers prepared Eduardo more thoroughly than he might have predicted, though Eduardo supposed he should have guessed that in this, as in everything else, he would be precise, cool. Zuckerberg had never been emotional, but in the years since their acquaintance, he appeared to have become even less so. 

They were quiet throughout, other than what was absolutely necessary to accomplish the deed. It hurt some, but no more than other hurts Eduardo carried. Zuckerberg was quiet when he spent, exhaling sharply into the skin at Eduardo’s neck. Zuckerberg surprised Eduardo a bit when he asked, “Shall I--” and moved his hand from Eduardo’s hip as if to reach around for him. Eduardo shook his head, sharp. “No, I’m. I’m fine.” There was a moment when Eduardo was not sure what Zuckerberg would do, but he felt him nod, then withdraw slowly, more carefully than Eduardo would have given him credit for. 

The last thing Eduardo remembered was Zuckerberg’s weight shifting off the bed, the padding of his stockinged feet across the floor, the snick of the door between their sets of rooms closing tight. That, and his attempt to ignore how, despite everything, his traitorous body had responded to Zuckerberg.

Eduardo sighed in his nest of fine sheets. By the slant of light sneaking in the windows, it was evident that it was far past Eduardo’s usual time of rising. There was no sense delaying it any further; it was past time for him to get cleaned up and face his new life.

~

At first Eduardo’s days dragged terribly. He felt as though he were an interloper in the life of the estate. The servants were deferential, but he couldn’t help but feel that underneath that, they were disdainful. Certainly at a minimum he was the subject of below-stairs gossip. 

The house was immense; the grounds also. Wherever he went, the staff would politely ask what his wishes were, but he felt every inch an intruder. He didn’t know what Zuckerberg’s expectations were concerning his behavior, and he felt completely incapable of presuming so much as to order a horse for riding or a carriage brought round to visit acquaintances, even if he’d wished to do so. 

He did discover a small reading library fortuitously adjacent to his suite of rooms, so spent countless hours reading. There was a surprisingly eclectic selection; he wouldn’t be surprised if Zuckerberg had paid someone to create a gentleman’s library. 

In response to Eduardo’s quiet question of the butler about the master’s dining habits, he received only a carefully blank stare and the assurance that, “he does not dine at table. Just a tray to his study.” The serving maid added the intelligence that Zuckerberg’s habits “make cook batty, how could they not, seein’ as how he don’t take but as much as a bird might eat,” but that his soirees somewhat made up for it, what with the expense and richness and variety of the menus.

Eduardo spent far more time than he wished to admit trying to determine whether he should eat proper meals in the dining room. It seemed somehow scandalous for a new spouse not to take proper meals, and yet at the same time it seemed somehow... reaching... to do so if Zuckerberg did not. WIth anyone else, Eduardo would take a husband’s failure to conform to the niceties as a sign of personal disdain, but knowing Zuckerberg as he did, he suspected he did not warrant even that: Zuckerberg probably hadn’t thought about it at all, instead being consumed in his work.

Night were no exception to the monotony, saving that he could never tell when there would be a soft rap on the connecting door between their rooms. It was infrequent, with no pattern Eduardo could see. Zuckerberg always looked exceedingly pale, almost worn, at these times, and said little. It was becoming insupportable, really, the oddness of their relations, and yet, what could Eduardo do? He had, after all, agreed to this marriage, and had even understood what Zuckerberg was like. He found himself -- despite his vows to himself not to do so -- looking for hints of the young man he’d known years ago, but if any of that young man remained, Zuckerberg was not revealing it.

 

~

“Why are you doing this?”

Eduardo looked up from his eggs, startled, and responded without thinking. “Doing what?”

Zuckerberg scowled and Eduardo kicked himself mentally. Eduardo had long given up any idea that Zuckerberg would ever visit the dining room, so he’d been taken entirely by surprise. Further in his defense, the tone of Zuckerberg’s voice had been reminiscent of years ago, rather than the clipped coolness it held now. It had shocked him into replying without reserve.

“Eating your meals here. Having the servants--” Zuckerberg waved an arm at the table, where a second place was set now for every meal Eduardo ate here, per his request to Mrs. Smith some days ago. Zuckerberg stared hard at him. “Misguided sense of propriety, perhaps?” he scoffed. “Blackmail? Turning the servants against me?”

Many possible responses flitted through Eduardo’s brain, but in a moment of temporary recklessness, he settled for the truth. “I’m actually not fully certain why.”

Zuckerberg’s face remained blank, but his eyebrow went up. “Or perhaps it’s in the nature of a dare?” he said, throwing Eduardo a glance that he could not interpret and sitting down abruptly at the second place at the table..

Mrs. Smith chose that moment to enter with a fresh pot of hot water for tea. She startled as she saw Zuckerberg, but covered it quickly in the way of servants experienced in working for the very wealthy. 

Eduardo shook his head and was about to protest Zuckerberg’s accusation, but just then, the corner of Zuckerberg’s mouth turned up just an infinitesimal amount, perhaps at Mrs. Smith’s discomfiture. It hit Eduardo hard, a tight well of feeling, seeing it -- seeing even that small thing -- it was so reminiscent of the curl of Zuckerberg’s mouth before one of their youthful exploits. Eduardo had always used to believe it meant that Zuckerberg esteemed Eduardo, viewed him as a particular friend, since Zuckerberg did not favor most with even that. So he said, “And if it were?”

Zuckerberg tapped open an egg with precision. “If it were a dare,” he said to the egg, “then it would be well chosen, since eating is something I do, after all, have to do regardless.”

“And yet you do not,” Eduardo answered, again without thinking.

This time Zuckerberg looked right at him, eyes less cold than Eduardo was used to. “I--I eat of course, I simply get too absorbed in--” Zuckerberg began, then bit off whatever he was going to say. 

They completed their meal in silence except for requests to pass the compote or the butter. Even so, it was some time until Zuckerman excused himself.

From then on, Zuckerberg joined Eduardo for some breakfasts and most dinners. They spoke little and only about trivial matters, but it was more conversation than they had had in the total weeks of their marriage until now. There was a faint new bloom in Zuckerman’s cheeks, also, that Eduardo thought he could credit at least in part to him eating more regularly and more wholesomely. It angered Eduardo that he cared at all, but regardless of how he felt about Zuckerman, he was his husband, and some probably ridiculous sense of duty propelled him to prefer he engage in healthy habits.

~

The weather matched Eduardo’s mood. The late-night sky crackled with energy and there was lightning on the horizon, an event so extraordinarily rare the servants were whispering about omens and the supernatural. It was hogwash of course, but the landscape did look eerily transformed. He stood at the large windows of his bedroom and watched the display on the horizon. Each flash of light felt as if it was under his skin. He felt restless and reckless. 

He’d finished almost every book in Zuckerberg’s reading library. He forced himself to dress carefully for breakfast and then again for dinner, and took a walk every day around the garden, but it wasn’t enough. He craved activity, usefulness. Companionship, even if just the light conversation with men at the Club or silliness with his sisters. Not to mention, the intellectual stimulation his work for Father had provided, despite everything. 

The meals he took with Zuckerberg saw Zuckerberg distracted more often than not, poring over dispatches or reports from his business. When he was not reading, he stared at Eduardo with the cold manner he’d come to expect from him, and rebuffed all attempts at normal conversation. It was impossible not to remember a time when it had been different, and Eduardo had to fight against his desire to revisit old injustices. There was no point, though, so he ate in silence. 

A particularly immense lightning bolt pulled him back into the present. He dimly registered a light knock, but before he could bring himself back fully from the landscape and his thoughts, the door opened behind him. He turned, wrenching his eyes away from the lightning, annoyed, assuming it was a servant.

It was Zuckerberg, who paled seeing Eduardo was not in bed with the room dark and the quilt pulled up, as was always true when he made his rare nighttime visits. He opened his mouth and made a gesture as if to apologize and make an exit, but no sound came out; he seemed transfixed, looking at Eduardo there by the window. 

Another flash of lightning, brilliant, lit up Zuckerberg’s face momentarily. His eyes were dark; his skin pale. He was biting his lip, rare uncertainty showing in his face.

Some strange notion grabbed Eduardo. The buzzing electricity he’d felt in his body all afternoon and evening intensified. His fingers itched. Zuckerberg was still rooted to the spot. Eduardo took a halting step toward him, then another, until he was close enough to see the quick rise and fall of Zuckerberg’s chest. 

Folly, his brain screamed at him, right before he followed the strange impulse and reached out to touch Zuckerberg, hands on his shoulders, then running down his arms and back up again. 

Zuckerberg seemed to feel it also, the mad static under the skin. He shuddered under Eduardo’s hands. Eduardo felt a momentary surge of triumph, quickly replaced by lust. He wanted him to shudder again like that. Again and again. 

He pressed up against Zuckerberg, felt him against his thigh through four layers of clothing, stiff already. 

So it was not just him, at least not tonight.

He manhandled Zuckerberg back toward the bed; he went, unresisting under Eduardo’s hands. 

And then he was under Eduardo, and Eduardo was untying his neckcloth, undoing his endless buttons. Zuckerberg’s mouth was open and he was panting. Soon Zuckerberg was almost naked underneath him, only a linen shirt left. In the flashes of lightning Eduardo could see him biting his lip, his eyes dark, darker, the shine of red in his dark curls. 

Zuckerberg’s hands were on Eduardo, too; he found himself divested of everything but his drawers, which opened easily enough to Zuckerberg’s trembling fingers. 

Eduardo didn’t let himself think, didn’t let himself hear the voice in his head that told him this was folly, worse than folly, worse than everything that had already been -- and not been -- between them. Instead, he shoved up Zuckerberg’s nightshirt and stroked his hands down his chest, over his flat stomach, down, down, spread his thighs, pale and unresisting, dribbled oil with shaky hands and pushed a finger inside him, then more..

Zuckerberg made a sound like something breaking and threw his head back, neck arching; Eduardo could see it all in the warm yellow light of the lantern, still burning low and not snuffed out as it was during their usual nighttime trysts. 

He wanted to keep him like this forever, neck bared, white chest gleaming with sweat, rocking into his fingers, for once devoid of his habitually haughty expression, but eventually his own urgency could no longer be denied. It was overwhelming, pushing in, Zuckerberg canting his hips up for more, faster, overwhelming to be surrounded in tight heat, Zuckerberg’s legs coming up around his back as if of their own accord, Zuckerberg’s hands splaying open on the linen, then coming to Eduardo’s hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.

He could still see lightning flashing at the window occasionally, but nothing could match the electric storm inside him, the building heat, Zuckerberg finally gritting out as if against his will, “More.” Eduardo gave him more, white heat licking up his spine and in his belly, fighting to put off the moment of completion, put it off, put it off, but finally he couldn’t any more. It was all too much, and he spent so hard he lost all consciousness of what he did, save that he remembered himself saying just at the end, “Mark.” 

It was shameful to remember, how that name flowed off his tongue so easily, and yet there was some slight solace in the fact that Mark immediately spent himself in turn, arching up hard off the bed, groaning low in his throat, almost as if it was Eduardo calling him by his given name, the name he’d used to call him by in their days of their youth in London, that called it out of him.

~

The next morning Eduardo woke alone, of course, then dressed for breakfast as always. He half-wondered if Mark -- Zuckerberg -- would avoid breaking his fast at the same hour as him, but he should have known that he would never allow himself to be affected by normal human emotions such as embarrassment or regret or anything else -- not that Eduardo seriously imagined that he was feeling anything out of the ordinary today. Indeed, Zuckerberg appeared at the same hour as always, grunted at Mrs. Smith, and ignored Eduardo as always, except to throw out an acerbic comment about the Bank of London after reading the morning’s headlines. Looking at his cold face, it was almost impossible to believe he was the same man who had been in Eduardo’s bed last night, gasping as Eduardo worked into him with his fingers.

That night, though, Zuckerberg appeared again in Eduardo’s room, very late, past the time Eduardo thought it was still possible he would come. He looked pale and spent, and did not meet Eduardo’s eyes in the candlelight, striding swiftly over and dousing even that light so they were in semi-darkness, only the half-moon’s rays filtering into the room through a gap in the velveteen curtains. Eduardo could feel energy thrumming under Zuckerberg’s skin when Zuckerberg finally touched him, palming him roughly through his pants. Eduardo felt unsettled, and surprised himself by pushing Zuckerberg away. 

“I tried. That is, you needn’t--,” Zuckerberg said, voice rough, and made a motion as if to turn towards the door. 

Eduardo didn’t respond, just sunk to his knees and grabbed the backs of Zuckerberg’s thighs with one hand and unhitched the fastening of his pants with the other, wanting, despite himself, to draw more of those raw sounds from his lips like he’d half-heard through the buzzing in his ears last night. This was better, Zuckerberg not looking into his face, instead clinging onto his shoulders, gasping loudly and leaning on him for balance. Eduardo had him deep in his mouth, world narrowed down to only the smooth weight between his lips and the aching in his loins, occasionally punctuated by the fingers digging into his shoulders. 

Then Zuckerberg was pulling on him, pulling him up and tumbling him down in the bed, hands all over Eduardo. Eduardo crawled down Zuckerberg’s body after shoving off most of their clothes and found his hard length again, now curving up to his stomach he was so stiff. He sucked at him until Zuckerberg was panting like he’d run many miles, until Zuckerberg’s hands were fisted into the sheets around his head. 

Eduardo was going to finish him like that, but Zuckerberg hauled on him. “I wish to--I want,” he whispered, harsh, like the words had been pulled out of someplace deep inside of him. Eduardo had never been able to say no to that tone, or any other tone of Zuckerberg’s, for that matter -- his weakness shamed him but there it was -- and he let Zuckerberg flip around and take a tentative lick at his cock, then suckle him all the way in. He’d clearly never done it before, just as last night it’d been clear he’d never had another man inside him, and that made Eduardo feel... he refused to think about it, whatever that meant or did not mean, as it went against something he’d believed or thought he’d known, and letting his thoughts down any roads like that led only to difficulty.

But still, knowing it now, feeling him shaking with lust as he licked up Eduardo’s length, cautiously ran his hand to curve around Eduardo’s balls... it was all Eduardo could do to not explode right then. 

Instead, he leaned up and shifted Zuckerberg’s hips when he’d come off of him momentarily to breathe, and took him into his mouth in one long stroke. Zuckerberg moaned and shuddered. Eduardo could almost hear his brain, ever-quick, working it out, and then Zuckerberg murmured, “Oh my god, I see,” then lowered his mouth onto Eduardo again. 

It was as explosive as before -- incredible both sucking at Zuckerberg and being sucked by him at the same time -- but even as he emptied his seed into Zuckerberg’s full mouth right after Zuckerberg came into Eduardo’s, Eduardo felt despair hit him hard, for it felt like having Zuckerberg and yet not having him, all at the same time; a familiar and unwelcome feeling indeed. He had believed he had left that behind him forever when he’d faced Zuckerberg across the table in his solicitors’ offices, or even earlier, when he’d been pushed out of the company they’d built together, leaving Zuckerberg to the mercies of the flashy financier he’d met while Eduardo was touring the continent to find investors. 

As always, though, he was helpless in the grasp of his reaction to Zuckerberg. Zuckerberg had probably known that about him for a long time, but despite how devoid of normal human feeling Eduardo knew him to be, it was still shocking that Zuckerberg would do this to him. Humiliation burned in Eduardo’s face as he realized that even brought so low, he still desired Zuckerberg’s regard, the one thing Zuckerberg, by the very act of forcing this marriage, had made it clear he would never, ever have.

~

The strange duality in Eduardo’s life persisted. During the day he and Zuckerberg would hardly see each other, except during silent meals at which, if anything, Zuckerberg was colder than ever. But at night, very late -- not all nights, but many -- Zuckerberg would come to his room and they would couple. The only thing in common between these two parts of Eduardo’s life was that Zuckerberg spoke only the minimum amount required for whatever activity was involved. 

It was supremely odd, how Eduardo was getting to know Zuckerberg’s body so well, could map it in the dark now with some assurance, confident of eliciting the responses he sought, yet at the same time felt he knew his mind even less than he formerly had. 

Aside from the nights, Eduardo’s life was full of boredom. He felt he could almost classify different types: the boredom of doing necessary chores such as dressing, the boredom of perusing the reading library to try to find books he hadn’t already read many times, the boredom of his walks on the estate, walks with no particular aim other than leaving the stifling confines of the house. He knew he could visit friends or family if he desired -- he wasn’t trapped here -- but his situation did not allow him to consider such ideas; he had no concept what he would say to people, nor any desire to use Zuckerberg’s carriages or staff.

So when Eduardo stumbled on the company’s latest report, which Zuckerberg accidentally left in the dining room one morning, he seized on it simply as something to relieve his boredom momentarily, with no particular end in view. It had been a long time since he had exercised his brain in his area of expertise, other than to watch his father’s fortune dwindle. On the surface all seemed well with Zuckerberg’s sprawling company, and yet there was something about what he was seeing... something that made him uncomfortable somehow, an itch he couldn’t ignore, that made him flip through all the accompanying paperwork, request paper and pen and ink distractedly from Charles, the butler, scribble numbers and run assumptions until he was elbow-deep in used paper, ink stains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

Eduardo sighed even as he attempted to keep his eyes fixed on the book in his hands. He couldn’t imagine how this particular volume, full of gothic ridiculousness, had become part of Zuckerberg’s reading library. He’d already read it through once shortly after he first came to live here, and he was having difficulty forcing his mind to stay focused on its romantic excesses and fog-enshrouded horrors. 

A sudden commotion near the door to the suite caught his attention. He couldn’t imagine what would be occurring to cause the thumping and loud exclamations he was hearing, let alone at this time of the evening.. 

Seconds later the mystery was solved, as he was astonished to see two young men -- boys really -- appear in the doorway juggling two huge crates. 

“Beggin’ the gentleman’s pardon, but the master wishes this to go to yourself, sir,” the taller one said, looking as if he was going to collapse soon under the weight of the box he carried. He darted a quick glance at Eduardo and cleared his throat. “Our ‘umblest apologies that it is so late in the evening. I said to Bob, ‘Bob, it’s pitiful late,’ and Bob says back, ‘You know his master’s ways,’ and I says--”

“Don’t pay him no mind, your honor,” the shorter one -- Bob, presumably -- said to Eduardo, shaking his head as if in commiseration over the loquaciousness of the tall one. “Tends to wax on, as it were. We’s to tell you, to say it’s for the, the -- what was it, Ned?” he asked, looking suddenly confused.

“The master’s corporation, of course, Ned. The Express. What him himself invented, as it were.” He nodded sagely. “‘It’s to go to my husband,’he says. ‘My husband.’” He beamed at Eduardo, who refused to examine what it felt like to be addressed in such a way. 

He couldn’t imagine what was in the crates, or what Zuckerberg had been thinking, but the boys looked like they were about to expire. “Do not trouble yourselves over it,” he said. “Just--” he considered briefly over where the crates should go, then made a snap decision, “Just put them in here.” He waved to the floor adjacent to the bed. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t room. And though he knew his damnable curiosity would not allow him to sleep without ascertaining their contents, he was too tired to wish to dress and accompany them to some other area of the mansion. If Zuckerberg made one of his rare trips into Eduardo’s quarters tonight and tripped over them in the dark, well, he had only himself to blame for foregoing all courtesy and having them delivered to Eduardo with no word whatsoever in advance about what they were.

An hour later found him on the bed, covers shoved down, surrounded by folders and documents lit by the yellow glow of the additional lamps he’d ordered lit. He was completely immersed in the contents of the documents. He had a pot of ink on the small table next to the bed and a pen in hand, marking notes onto paper he’d had brought to him from the study. 

Some time ago, a servant had cleared his throat and asked if his honor intended to be at it much longer. Eduardo had glanced at the clock distractedly and nodded, waved him off with a gesture and a quick, “Go, go to bed, I have everything I need.” So he knew it was late. Very late, even.

He was so immersed in unraveling the intricate structure of the delivery system Zuckerberg had implemented that he did not notice, at first, the opening of the door adjoining the two suites, nor Zuckerberg’s actual presence in his chamber, candle in hand, stripped of his coat and boots. 

In fact, it was a quick movement out of the corner of his eye that caught his attention; Zuckerberg, backing away towards the door, as if to disappear back into his own room. 

“Oh!” Eduardo exclaimed, taken off guard. “I--” he flushed, suddenly realizing what Zuckerberg was here for. Undoubtedly he was not prepared for the sight of his husband, instead of welcoming him into his bed as duty required, stripped to his ink-stained shirt, biting on the nib of his pen and surrounded by wrinkled sheets littered with balls of crumpled up papers and stacks of documents, all laid out in related piles, according to Eduardo’s understanding of the interrelationship of the parts of the business. 

Eduardo set his pen down hurriedly, managing to get a fresh ink stain on the sheets in the process, and reached as if to clear space on the bed, but it only served to scatter the papers even more messily. “I’m sorry. I--I’ll clean this up at once. I should have thought, I just--”

“No, keep it,” Zuckerberg said. “I am perfectly capable of, well--I will leave you, it is nothing, you are occupied and--” He gestured toward the door and took another few steps backward, then frowned and seemed to finally take in the crates lying open on the floor, the nature of the papers on the bed. “Oh. Of course. I’d forgotten I ordered these brought over...” 

Eduardo watched, fascinated despite himself as Zuckerberg’s face did one of its quicksilver changes, showing its owner’s sudden focus on something completely different than he had been focused on only minutes before. “The documentation,” he said, taking a few steps toward the bed, where he halted suddenly and flushed, as if realizing the context of their surroundings as applied to the new circumstances. 

Eduardo nodded. “There’s something odd that I am attempting to trace.” He swallowed. “Not that it is any of my business. That is. I don’t know why you had the documents brought here, but undoubtedly I overstep. I will have them set to rights and--”

Zuckerberg waved his hand dismissively and stepped closer. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I--Fine. Then perhaps you would be willing to answer a few questions?”

Zuckerberg looked up sharply from the papers to Eduardo’s face. He scanned it and when satisfied at what he saw there -- almost as if he thought Eduardo would be mocking him -- he nodded. “Certainly. Shall I--” he looked around the room, almost desperately, as if some magical solution as to where to sit would present itself, but there was nothing suitable. Nothing except--

“Here,” Eduardo said, clearing the bed immediately next to him, shoving everything into closer piles. He refused to allow himself to look at Zuckerberg as he did it, then motioned to him to sit. “If it suits?” He did look then. Zuckerberg raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, eyes already on the summary document Eduardo had prepared, full of his notes.

It was only after Zuckerberg had sat down next to him on the bed, both of them leaning back against the plump pillows and poring over documents, occasionally reading some particularly relevant segment aloud to each other, but the rest of the time working companionably in silence -- only some time later, that Eduardo realized belatedly with fullness, how exceedingly inappropriate this was. This was the very bed on which--

He stopped himself. Clearly in this, as in all things, Zuckerberg had no normal compunctions. For all Eduardo knew -- and indeed he believed this to be the case -- Zuckerberg’s occasional nighttime visits to this bed were simply as he represented them, a duty. The duty of a husband to the institution, to the law. If he were occasionally... zealous, in his duty, then it was simply the ardor of a young man in good health, appropriate for this time of his life.

Eduardo caught himself stealing little glances under his lashes at Zuckerberg. Every time, he forced his eyes back to the papers in front of him, yet once again, in a few moments or many, he would find his eyes drawn back to that fair skin, the regal profile, the riot of nighttime curls... It was probably something about the odd situation...

It was insupportable. He admonished himself to leave it, and concentrate. Eventually, he was eventually able to, drawn into the mysteries and permutations of figuring out the business itself. Seeing what the business had become was like coming back to a friend who one had known when quite small, who had grown exceedingly and was a full adult. He kept catching glimpses of ideas he and Zuckerberg had discussed so long ago over drinks at the club, but The Express was far more than he, at least, had ever dreamed, a network linking not only England, but her colonies and surrounding sister nations as well, providing a sure method of communication between friends and family, and even, in its most innovative features, between strangers, creating a type of hybrid between a newspaper or newsletter and an actual letter.

They worked for a very long time, poring over the records, Zuckerberg answering Eduardo’s increasingly-complex questions, and occasionally posing questions of his own. Eduardo could not recall ever working with someone with a more agile mind. At times, they seemed to communicate almost silently, passing a paper before asked about it, or turning to the same topic at the identical moment.

He did not remember the line between awake and asleep, but only remembered feeling that his eyes were suddenly very heavy during a time they were both reading lengthy reports. The bed was so warm, the light soft and golden, Zuckerberg’s breathing so steady and familiar...

He woke suddenly some time later when he heard the crinkle of paper under his ear and remembered everything all in a rush. He was prepared to get up and set everything to rights immediately despite his exhaustion, but to his amazement, when his eyes flew open he saw Zuckerberg still there in the bed, relaxed in sleep that had obviously taken him unexpectedly as well. He had his hand curled around a folder. He had turned, presumbly in his sleep, so his body was curled in a C-shape towards Eduardo. His face in sleep was unguarded and looked very young, like it had when they’d first met.

Eduardo spent some time just looking at him. His curls were a riot around his face. Sparse stubble was growing in on his chin. His eyelashes were very long.

There were still two candles guttering in their holders, so when Mark’s -- Zuckerberg’s -- eyes flew suddenly open, there was no possibility that he did not see Eduardo staring at him, despite it being the very middle of the night; it was absolutely dark and silent outside the windows. 

Zuckerberg fixed his gaze immediately on Eduardo and it stayed on him, unblinking, for a very long time, in that way he had of openly staring. 

It was very, very quiet, so quiet Eduardo could hear his own tripping heart. He thought for a moment he saw Zuckerberg fight a deep breath and a swallow, that some emotion played behind those deep-blue eyes, but Eduardo was so immersed in schooling his features not to reveal his discomfort that he doubted his own perception. 

It must be self-delusion. As must have been the quick dart of Zuckerberg’s eyes down to Eduardo’s mouth, right before he closed his eyes and appeared to sink back into sleep. 

Eduardo was left unsettled. Very unsettled. Part of him knew he should rise, clear the bed, change into nightclothes.

But if he did that--If he did that it might -- would, inevitably --cause Zuckerberg to abandon his location.

And that was not something Eduardo wanted to risk. Not while Zuckerberg was here next to him, breathing almost in synchronicity with him, hand lying very close to Eduardo’s own. It was-- It was exceedingly odd, no doubt. But still, not something he wished to disturb.

Eduardo lay awake for a very long time.

~ ~

End of what has been written


End file.
